Poem Without Thought
First sign of thought this morning,
I turned into a left
onto a field of lively
actuality
residing here until
the cows of Mu come home:
space without a measure,
time without a moment,
next without preceding,
before without an after,
green void without one color—
adoring the God of No God,
an all without a one
and singularity
without a single compare.
No Creed
Within this land
of sense and thought,
Spirit is
the wildest seed.
At best, we do
prepare the ground,
but nothing grows
to meet our need.
The growth of Spirit
is Its grace
beyond our world
of word and deed.
In fact, this world
gets pulled away—
the fruit of Spirit
lifts that weed.
based on these 2 tweets:
Spirit is beyond all human understanding, is "experienced" beyond the senses and thought, and is not translatable by any human means.
It helps to prepare the ground, but Spirit is a wild seed. Its growth is its own grace. And its fruit is the destruction of your "world."
Poem tweets:
Intro
Title
Stanza 1
Stanza 2
Stanza 3
Stanza 4
Conclusion
later revision: S1;L1: substituted "land" for "world
The Parking Space
(apologies to the TV situation comedy, Seinfeld)
On a street outside of Harvard Yard
we come across a madcap argument
about possession of a parking space.
It seems that one accomplice drove right in
despite the fact another was about
to back it in, turn signal clearly on.
Tempers go rising like these unseasonable
spring temperatures, and the language being used
is not exactly the academic kind.
It’s unbelievable how we can desire
an insignificant amount of space
for briefest interludes of metered time
and turn it to the ultimate essential
situation in the universe—
but that’s our unrealistic paradigm.
Running Into Cherry Blossoms
My mind was running like my car this morning
focused on some marginal pursuit
as well as breakfast and a mug of coffee,
when I caught a trace of cherry blossoms
like a coral-colored burst beginning
to descend in periodic sprays.
Gloria in Excelsis, the Manifest
approach of consciousness has materialized
in this imagining this morning. Just sensing
its presence with all my sight, I’ve disappeared
completely. All that now remains is one
abyss in blossom, fresh, unyielding, light.
Postmodern Kōan 2: Rin Tin Roshi serenades the wilderness canaries with a photocopy of an aloe vera. Astabula! Lemonade! Vacuum Cleaner! Yo!
Postmodern Kōan 1: Banana me an apricot beyond the Appaloosa shore and what. And would you weather-proof your ghost machine as well?
